The Great Big Slumber
by starwenn
Summary: Betty imagines that she and Scott are private detectives


This spoof is set during the third season, between "Mr. & Mrs. Singer" and "Happy Homecomings". WARNING: THIS FANFIC DOES CONTAIN SPOILERS. PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

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The Great Big Slumber

By Emma Redmer

Miss Betty Roberts sat in the office, listening to Mr. Rolleigh "Rollie" Pruitt (also known to those at Radio Station WENN as "The Satanic Santa") list his mandate for how WENN should be run. Well, half-listening. In reality, Miss Roberts' mind was elsewhere. One ear was on Pruitt, the other was on the episode of "Sam Dane, Private Eye" that was being performed in Studio A at that moment. 

"...Oh, I have lots of plans for WENN, Miss Roberts," Pruitt claimed happily. "First thing we need to do is cut the budget. No more silly, frivolous, money-losing schemes like that disastrous all-news day and Miss Booth's botched attempt at a gossip show. What WENN needs is tighter control, financially and artistically..." He suddenly realized that the young writer wasn't paying the least bit of attention to his orders, and that annoyed him. In Boston, everyone listened to his orders, or else. "Miss Roberts, have you even noticed my lips moving?" He spoke louder. "Miss Roberts!"

Betty finally noticed him. "Oh," she muttered, "sorry, Mr. Pruitt. I was just monitoring the broadcast." She looked up at the irritated financier. "Where were we?"

Pruitt gritted his teeth. Why, oh why did his regular secretary Pricilla Cosgrave have to come down with a fever? At least she paid attention to what he was saying! Not to mention the fact that she always agreed with him about everything. "I was just saying, Miss Roberts, that WENN needs tighter control, both financially and artistically. Disasters like the recently-canceled late-night program..."

"The 'Agitato Alert'," Betty reminded him.

Pruitt went on as if she hadn't spoken "...and the frauds perpetuated on your musical show and your wedding show..."

Betty sighed. "'A Night on the Town' and 'Bridal Bouquet'," she corrected. 

"...Have led me to go over the budget for this station. I'm going to say that there will be no more financing for ridiculous ideas as of right now." Pruitt smirked. "I, of course, advised Gloria Redmond to write this station off as a tax deduction last Christmas. She refused to hear of it after that bit of sentimentalism the old man read her."

"Mr. Eldridge," Betty told him. "He read that 'bit of sentimentalism' to me later and I found it to be quite moving."

He ignored her admonishment. "Actually, I advised Benjamin Redmond not to buy this station in the first place. I said right away that it was a waste of money and would be gone in a few years, if not a few minutes. He insisted on having a place that he and his wife could call home, in an artistic sense."

"Some people enjoy having homes away from home, Mr. Pruitt," Betty icily said. "It makes them secure to know that there's something they can always rely on to be there for them through thick and thin." She heard Hilary squawk and march down the hallway. "I'm sorry, Mr. Pruitt, but we seem to be having some technical difficulty. Please excuse me."

Pruitt narrowed his eyes as Betty hurriedly exited his office. He wasn't quite certain that she knew nothing about his real reason for coming back to WENN. Most of the others had no idea of what his plans for the station were. She was an intelligent girl. There was also that meddling Scott Sherwood to contend with. Sherwood was clever enough to catch on to his true intentions. Both would have to be heavily watched. 

Betty met an angry Hilary in the hallway. "Betty, could you please tell Scott that he's merely filling in for my Jeff, not changing his roles? First he plays fast and loose with my starring soap operas, then he reads the wrong lines for 'Sam Dane' - on purpose!"

Betty calmed Hilary down. "Hilary, go back into the studio. I'll talk to Scott while you and Mackie do Julius Cesar for 'Pittsburgh Public Library Theater'. I'll even watch the broadcast to make sure that he doesn't try to cause trouble again."

Hilary brightened. "Thank you, dear." She then frowned. "But if he tries to do something funny one more time, the Professor won't be the only one who'll see that he's stuffed in cement shoes and sent to the bottom of the Monogehela! Or have I said too much?" She sashayed into Studio much to the surprise and delight of her fellow cast members. Betty joined C. J in the control room. 

She watched carefully to make sure that Scott didn't annoy Hilary. "Sam Dane" was one of the shows that she co-created with the not-very-late Victor Comstock, and it remained one of her favorites. She loved to imagine what it would be like to work in dark alleys and capture criminals and kiss con men whom...

Betty tried to shove the last image out of her head. Scott Sherwood was one of the reasons WENN was in the spot that it was. His crazy ideas did cost the station money, but, despite what Pruitt wanted to believe, not all of them were bombs. The "Agitato Alert" was profitable for a time. Mr. Acton's two new crime shows were wildly popular with young men and their fathers, while "Calico Jones, Detective" had a growing fan base of women who admired the smart, sassy, mystery-solving feline. Hilary was, despite her complaints, growing rather fond of Calico herself. Playing a cat at least gave her a chance to hiss at Scott, who portrayed Calico's tomcat sweetheart. 

Betty closed her eyes and listened intensely to her own words. _I almost wish I _were _a detective. Then I could get the goods on Pruitt and get him out of WENN, or at least as far away from it as possible. Scott once said he was a detective. Maybe he could help me..._

===========================================================================

They call me Jones. Miss Betty Jones. You can just call me Betty, the first half of the Jones and Dane Detective Agency. When a semi-famous stage star came to my partner and I to ask for help in finding her missing husband, I thought it would be just a case of persuading an erring spouse to run home to his wife. Little did we know that the case would change our lives.

I was doing paperwork at my desk when...

"Miss Jones, there's a woman here to speak to you."

I frowned at my secretary. "Gertie, you're not supposed to interrupt my narrative!"

Gertie moved back. "Oops, sorry, Miss Jones." She swatted the fog out of her face. "What's with all the smoke? If we get any more smoke in here, the radio store next door may end up calling the fire department." She stared at me. "You and Mr. Dane said that you didn't smoke."

"We don't. The smoke is for atmosphere."

The befuddled secretary gazed around the office I shared with my partner, Scott Dane. "And why is everything suddenly in black-and-white? I thought this was a color program!" 

I shrugged. "It's for a reverse-_Wizard of Oz_ effect. Most mysteries and suspense thrillers are more effective in black-and-white."

"Oh, well, there's a woman in your lobby, Miss Jones. She says that she needs to see you urgently. Calls it life or death."

I raised my eyebrows. "Send her in, Miss Reece."

She was a tall, cool brunette whose dress and hat alone would cost my entire month's salary. The rock on her finger was the size of the German Army and the money from hocking it probably could have fed them for nearly a year. I vaguely recognized her as being a stage personality, but nothing more. 

The woman gave me a strange look. "What was that about rocks?"

"Uh, nothing." Darn, how do people keep hearing my voice over? This never happens to James Cagney or George Raft.

She went on. "I'm Miss Hilary Booth, of course." She held out her hand and I firmly shook it. This seemed to take her aback a bit. She must have been expecting me to fall to my knees at her feet. "I'm here to speak to Mr. Jones or Mr. Dane about a most important case."

"My name is Miss Betty Jones," I said, emphasizing the miss. "My partner, Mr. Scott Dane, is out at the moment, searching for a bird of some kind."

"A bird?"

"He gave me some crazy story about a fat man and Malta and some little gunman. He'll probably get tired of playing Bogart in about an hour or so, if he isn't arrested."

"Never mind about birds. Miss Jones, I need your assistance!" Miss Booth exclaimed melodramatically. "My husband Jeffery Singer has vanished into thin air. If you don't find him, we'll be ruined!"

I frowned. "Start at the beginning, Mrs. Singer."

"It's MISS Booth," she snapped. "We were approached by a wonderful new writer with a fabulous new drama...er, comedy...er, well, dramady, 'The Bell of Babylon' that was written especially for us. You might remember us from 'Razzle Dazzle', our lovely version of 'Romeo and Juliet', and of course, my work in 'The Rivals' that made me the toast of Broadway…"

I had no desire to hear Mrs.…uh, Miss Booth's resume at that moment. "You were saying, Miss Booth?"

"Oh, yes, well, Jeffrey was supposed to arrive at the Rialto Theater here in Pittsburgh at noon for our first rehearsal. He never appeared there, and no one has seen him since. He hasn't been at home or at O'Malley's in two weeks."

I frowned. "Have you reported this to the police?"

"Yes, and they're doing everything they can, but they have other cases to work on." She leaned over to me. "I want you to find him. Here's the most recent picture I have of him. I think he's either off with another woman, which wouldn't surprise me, or someone has kidnapped or," her voice broke a little here, "killed him."

I took the photo from her. The man in the shot was young, much closer to my age than Miss Booth's. He was tall and handsome, with an arrogant expression in his face and manner. He and Miss Booth would be perfect for each other. I sighed. "Miss Booth, I'll take your case…"

Miss Booth was thrilled. "Thank you, Miss Jones! I'll pay for all expenses. All I want is my Jeffrey back before 'The Bell of Babylon' opens. The curtain goes up in two weeks and his understudy couldn't act his way out of a Vitaphone short, much less a play script!"

I sighed. "We'll see what we can do, Miss Booth."

She nodded. "Please do!" She was getting up to leave just as my partner, Scott Dane, scrambled into the office. I indicated the large, black-haired man in the trenchcoat and fedora. "Miss Booth, this is my partner, Mr. Scott Dane."

Scott became my partner when my original associate, Victor Comstock, moved to London and died in the Blitz. The handsome lug was a former con artist who only became a private eye because he claimed to have run out of other businesses to join. He's a liar, a schemer, and not a favorite with the local cops. He gets us into jams and I get us out of jams. Still, he's a brilliant businessman, can de-code almost any message thrown at him, and isn't exactly hard on the eyes. 

He wasn't very happy. "Darn bird," he muttered. "Shoulda know it wasn't the real thing."

I waved my hand at Miss Booth, ignoring Scott's complaints about his botched case. "Scotty, meet our new client, Miss Hilary Booth."

Hilary held out her hand to Scott, who shook it firmly. She gave him a funny look. "Hi there, Miss…"

"Booth, Hilary Booth, of course."

"Oh, sure, Hildy." Miss Booth fumed and Scott turned to me. "So, any new cases?"

"Mr. Dane, I came to your detective agency to ask you to find my missing husband," Miss Booth snapped. "I can take my case elsewhere…"

That got Scott. He joined me at my desk. "So, Miss Boot…"

"Booth…"

"Where was your husband last seen?"

She closed her eyes. "We spent time at the Green Room Bar and Lounge together the night before he disappeared. He left early, claiming he had an appointment in the morning before our rehearsal. That was the last anyone ever saw of him." She arched her barely existing eyebrows. "I called all his usual girlfriends and they claimed to not have seen him, either."

Scott looked at his watch. "Oh, would you look at the time?" I rolled my eyes at Scott's ubiquitous trademark catchphrase. "Miss Booth, Miss Jones and I have a very important call coming through…" Scott grabbed the phone and barked a greeting into it, and Miss Booth took the hint and left with the same flourish and trail of bittersweet perfume she'd entered with.   


"All right, Scott Dane, what's going on in that busy little brain of yours? If it's anywhere near illegal, don't even bother saying it."

"Betty," he said with a grin, "I know the bartender at the Green Room and Lounge intimately, and one of my best friends has a torch act there. It'll be a good place to start."

The Green Room Bar and Lounge was a steamy joint in the heart of the city. The heat was so intense that I could have cut it with a knife and served it with cream and sugar. A small blond man mixed drinks at the bar, while a redheaded woman poured out dirges of heartache and love on-stage. The atmospheric smoke from our office seemed to have followed us to the bar. It was pea soup thick and hard to see through. Scott led me past several appraising and very drunk men to a cracked leather-topped bar. 

"I'll have the usual, C.J," Scott told the bartender. "What about you, Betty?"

"I'll have a root beer, light on the beer." C.J went to retrieve our orders. The dame was singing something slightly more upbeat now. A short, slender drummer and a plump, kind-looking blond woman accompanied her. 

C.J came back with our drinks and Scott took a gulp. "Hey, C.J," he said after he finished the gold-colored liquid, "do you remember a fellow who came in here a few weeks ago? Tall, brown curly hair, liked to tell everyone what productions he's appeared in?"

"You mean Jeff Singer?" CJ nodded. "He used to hang out here. He was talking to some woman the last time I saw him. He came here with his wife, but she left early. The woman joined him after she took off."

"What kind of a woman?" I asked, sipping my root beer. 

"Tall, blond, with sloping, foreign eyes. She sounded like she was reciting dialogue from a Marlene Dietrich movie. She was young, about 25 or 30 or so, and had a German or Eastern European accent, you know?" Scott nodded. CJ leaned over to us and whispered "Confidentially, they looked like they were discussing love – her hands were all over him – but his face was dead white, even though his voice was normal. I thought she was going to drag him off to be shot or something."

CJ left to attend to some customers at the other end of the bar and Scott turned to me. Scott jutted a finger at CJ and grinned. "He'd make a good cop." He gulped more of the gold drink. "I wonder what that was about? From what I gathered from Hildy, Jeff Singer isn't the type of guy who would mind chatting with a pretty lady or two."

I shrugged. "She might have been trying to get him to do something that he didn't want to do."

"Why would Singer cover it up and try to act like nothing's wrong, then?" Scott countered. "No, Betty, there's something going on here, and it's not adultery."

"He is an adult," I pointed out. "Mrs....Miss Booth mentioned that Jeff has a history of this sort of thing."

"Yeah, but remember what CJ said. Jeff and the foreign woman only looked like they were having an affair. He was scared to death."

The redhead finished her song and rushed over to the bar. She gave Scott a big, wide hug. "Scotty! What brings you to this head of the woods?"

Scott grinned. "Mabel, this is my partner, Miss Betty Jones. Betty, this is Mabel, one of my oldest and dearest friends."

Mabel grabbed my hand and shook it so hard she almost pinched me with her long, lacquered fingernails. "Hi, there, Miss Jones. I'm Mabel. I sing the songs here with the house band."

"Mabel, we need your help with a case," I explained after shooting Scott a dirty look. This isn't the first time he's gotten one or more of his many "friends" involved with our detecting. "We were wondering if you know anything about Jeff Singer."

Mabel shrugged and called to CJ for a drink. "He was a nice guy. Cute, funny, very sweet, good taste in clothes and in dames. His wife thought I was after him, but I told her straight off that while he's terrific, he's not my type. Of course, Hilary thinks that every woman is Jeff's type."

"I actually saw Jeff Singer that afternoon, while his wife was at the theater. He was having a chat with Rollie Pruitt, that big time accountant from Boston who has more mula than Errol Flynn, though I wouldn't recommend him in the same places that I would with Errol. Pruitt makes Ebneezer Scrooge look like Eleanor Roosevelt."

I noticed a small, blond man enter the bar. A tall, blond woman with a German-like accent accompanied him. I grabbed Scott by the arm and he motioned for CJ. "Would that be the woman who Jeff Singer talked to?" Scott asked the little bartender. 

CJ nodded. "That's her, all right. Accent and everything."

I indicated her partner. "Who's she with?"

"Oh, that's Kurt Holstrom," CJ told us. "He's the head of a big construction firm. Wonder what he's doing here, slumming?"

"I'm going to find out," I told Scott. There was something about Holstrom and especially about the woman that I didn't like. Holstrom wore an expensive tux and the dame writhed around in a tight gown that showed off a body that had more curves than the Allegheny and the Mongehela put together. The three of us sat down at Kurt Holstrom's table. Her slanted eyes gave her an Asian look and her perfect long tresses brought Betty Grable to mind.

"Hello, Miss...." Holstrom's hearty voice somehow rang false in my ears. 

"Jones," I told him coolly. "Betty Jones. This is my partner, Scott Dane, and the singer at this establishment, Miss Mabel."

The exotic blond looked very interested in Scott, but he paid no attention to her. "Actually, Holstrom, we'd like a word with your lovely companion. She seems to have been the last person to speak to a Mr. Jeff Singer. Singer vanished two weeks ago and his wife wants him to come home."

"Why don't you go peek in doors and take pictures, like most good little private eyes?" Holstrom complained. "Miss Pavlia Nellicova is my newest discovery. She's set to take the Pittsburgh stage and radio world by storm."

"I do not know who you are talking of, Miss Jones," Pavlia claimed. "I never heard of your Mr. Singer. I just came here a few weeks ago from London."

"Mr. Holstrom," I said, "we have witnesses who claimed to see Miss Nellicova speaking quite, um, forcefully, to Mr. Singer two weeks ago."

Pavlia laughed. "That is very funny. I was with the man who brought me here two weeks ago."

Mabel nodded at the stage. "I have to get back up there and finish my act." She shook Holstrom's hand but refused to take Pavlia's. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Holstrom." She glared at Pavlia and whispered to me "I know that dame is the biggest darn liar since Scotty went straight. You can't trust her any more than you'd trust a cola."

I think Mabel meant a cobra, but I got the gist. Pavlia ignored Mabel and turned all her girlish charms on Scott. He seemed to enjoy her fawning. I clenched my teeth and questioned Holstrom. "Do you know a Mr. Jeff Singer or a Miss Hilary Booth, Mr. Holstrom?"

"Call me Kurt, Miss Jones. No, I don't know them personally, but I saw Miss Booth three times in 'The Rivals'. She was excellent. Of course, she was also a lot younger then."

"I wouldn't tell her that unless you really like having black eyes," I reminded him. "She gives them out in lovely shades of heliotrope."

"Heliotrope?" Kurt asked. "What is heaven's name is heliotrope?" I felt Kurt's breath tickle my neck as he leaned over me and whispered in my ear. "I wouldn't pursue the Singer case if I were you, Miss Jones." I gulped when his huge hand took hold of my arm and squeezed it so hard I thought I heard a few important bones crack. "It may be hazardous to your health, and my boss and I wouldn't want a pretty lady like you to suddenly have a terrible mishap, like, say, taking a sudden swim in the Mongehela in cement shoes." He pressed my arm harder. I choked back a squeal. "Or maybe you'd like to see my boss harm your precious partner. You and Mr. Dane make a handsome couple. It would be a shame if Dane suddenly disappeared because his woman couldn't keep her trap shut."

"Don't think you're warning me or Scott off this case, buster," I muttered back. Scott had a funny look on his face. I thought I saw something silver and sharp in Pavlia's hand. 

Holstrom stood and said in a louder, happier voice, "Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Jones, but I'm afraid that this club is rather dull. Don't you agree, Miss Nellicova?"

Pavlia nodded and stood. "This is not a fun place." She sidled up to Kurt. "I would like to go to somewhere fun. Maybe the boss knows of a fun place."

I stood and Holstrom pressed so close to me that I could smell his five-dollar after-shave. "Remember what I said, Miss Jones. Drop the case, or you and Mr. Dane will be the ones who end up dead in the end."

"Ooh, I'm scared," I said mockingly, "I'm shaking." I gave him a rotten look. "Tell your boss that you can't scare us off that easily. Either of us."

He let me go and the two of them sashayed out of the club and into what was probably Holstrom's private limo. I turned to Scott. "Did she threaten you, too?"

"She held a knife on me and basically said that she'd hurt me and kill you if we kept looking for Jeff Singer," Scott said.

"You wanna give up?" I asked.

"No. You?"

"Of course not."

Scott grinned and put his arm around my shoulder. "Bettybettybetty, how's many words can you type in a minute?"

I frowned. I'm always on my guard when he calls me that. "Oh, so many kinds. Why?"

"Betty, have you ever thought of working for the richest banker in town?" 

I stood in front of Mr. Pruitt's desk, explaining to him and his personal secretary Pricilla Cosgrave that I was new in town and needed a job. I laid it on really thick, fluttering my eyelashes and looking girlish. He must have thought I was crazy. Frankly, I thought Scotty was crazy. He wanted me to search Pruitt's office while the big cheese was out. 

"No, Miss Jones, I don't believe you're crazy," Pruitt said in his slithery voice. He had the belly of Santa Claus, but I could tell that this was not a man you'd want coming down your chimney on Christmas Eve. He had the face of a sick bulldog and an ego that would make Hilary Booth look like Deanna Durbin. And how can he hear my voice over? I mulled that over while Pruitt mulled my fake credentials over. He barked short sentences to Miss Cosgrave, who dutifully wrote every single word on her note pad. 

He smiled. His ugly grin chilled me to my bones. "Miss Jones, I believe you have everything Miss Cosgrave and I are looking for in a new secretary. We're both constantly busy and could use someone to retrieve coffee and do minor writing assignments."

I beamed. "I'll do my best, Mr. Pruitt."

"I'm sure you will, Miss Jones." He picked up his coat. "Miss Cosgrave and I will be lunching at Bella's Restaurant in Monroeville. I have a meeting with Kurt Holstrom afterwards in this office. For now, I need you to do one tiny trifling assignment for me."

"Name it."  


"Have this nine-hundred-eighty-seven page report on last year's quarterly stock market take for Holstrom Construct-O-Sets done by the time we get back." Miss Cosgrave deposited a stack of paper the size of the Glickman Building on the desk in front of me. "Well, hop to it, Miss Jones." He glared at me. "Or else!"

I got working. I kept working until Pruitt and Cosgrave were totally out of sight. I then dropped page six of that nine hundred some page report and started searching the office for evidence of Jeff Singer's visit with Rollie Pruitt.

She was beautiful, and sweet, and beautiful, and smart, and did I mention beautiful? Betty Jones was the perfect combination of country sweetheart and city glamour queen and I aimed to marry her someday, as soon as I could get her to notice me as something more than her partner in fighting crime. I was in....

"Scott, could you please leave the voice-overs to me? This is MY imaginary-show sequence!"

"Sorry, Betty, but I just had to tell the readers and listeners how I felt about you."

"Wait until the end of the spoof segment to sing my praises. We haven't even solved the mystery yet!"

"Awwww, Betty! What about our fans who so desperately want to see us together?"

"Mystery first, romance later. Aren't you the one who complained about the 'mushy stuff' in our soaps?"

"Yeah, that's true."

"So, let's get back to the story!" Ahem, Sorry for that little interruption, folks. We now return you to "The Great Big Slumber", already in progress.

After Scott had his fun stealing my voice-over...

"Betty!"

...he joined me in Pruitt's office. We turned the place inside out searching for something, anything, which would reveal the secret of Pruitt's strange meeting with Jeffrey Singer. I was riffling through the drawers in the desk when I discovered an interesting object. I pulled it out of the desk and showed it to Scott, who was going through the books on the shelves. "Scott, look at this!"

He frowned. "A black strongbox. So what?"

"It's locked."

"Locked?" I nodded. ""Where's the key?"

We searched the whole desk from top to bottom for that lock opener and found neither hide nor hair nor anything else of it. We were looking through the rest of the office when I heard voices in the hall. I opened the door and peered out. 

"Scott," I exclaimed, "Pruitt, Holstrom, and Cosgrave are coming this way! You have to hide!"

He was already putting books in their original spots. "Never mind that, get this joint cleaned up! If Pruitt knows we've been snooping, he'll get suspicious!"

"I'll finish! Just hide!" I shoved Scott under a conference table and continued shelving books and papers when my employers and their lunch companion entered the room. They sat at the conference table and didn't give me a second look, even when I barely concealed a gasp. Scott's foot jutted out from under the table. The last thing I needed was for him to get caught and the jig to be up. I discreetly kicked his foot under the table while serving the two men coffee (Miss Cosgrave declined, claiming that caffeine did frightening things to her nerves.) He yelped, but I covered his complaints with a fit of coughing.

They mostly discussed business, but their talk sounded rehearsed, like when one of WENN's shows actually goes for more than five minutes without a disaster. Pruitt wanted to buy shares in Holstrom's Construct-O-Sets, which seemed innocent enough, but I felt like Miss Clavel in the Madeline children's book – something was not quite right. 

"I can do wonderful things for Holstrom Construction, Kurt," Pruitt said. "We need to become partners."

"Yes, Rollie," Holstrom added, "it would be a good thing for both our businesses. We could go national, even global. Do we have a deal?"

"Yes, of course, Kurt," Pruitt purred. I shivered again. Pruitt's voice just did that to me. Or maybe it was the cigars that the two men smoked. My eyes watered. Miss Cosgrave had to wring sweat and tears out of her notepad. I prayed that the smoke wouldn't effect Scott, but, naturally, he just had to sneeze. Twice, actually. The conference table rose several feet both times. Pruitt lifted the tablecloth and looked under it. "Come out of there, sir," he purred. 

Scott glared at them and wiped his wet eyes. "Man, couldn't you guys put out the cigars? They're killing me!"

Pruitt frowned. "Who is this man?"

I backed off. "I don't know, sir. I've never seen this man before in my life." Scott shot me a nasty look but I pointed at the two burly businessmen to remind him not to blow my cover. 

Holstrom seemed to notice me for the first time. "They're both private dicks...and doras," he added when I realized what he said and gave him my best angry look. "Pavlia and I met them at the club last night. They were prying into the Jeff Singer case."

Cosgrave started to say something, but Pruitt stopped her. "Oh, really? That's very interesting. Very interesting indeed." He laughed like a villain from a serial or a Jack Benny parody. "You both knows what happens to people who pry into other people's business."

"Oh, puh-leeze," I groaned. "Don't lay the threats on us again. We're just going to keep doing what we're doing no matter what you tell us." I dumped the paper stack in Miss Cosgrave's arms. "Oh, by the way, Rollie," I giggled, "I finished your report."

"Don't think you're going to get away this easily!" Holstrom reminded us. "Bad guys have ways of getting good guys out of the way."

Pruitt laughed. "This is all most amusing, but we're not bad guys or girls. Mr. Holstrom, Miss Cosgrave and I are merely innocent businesspeople who are just going about their duties. We're just buying and selling shares in Mr. Holstrom's company. What's wrong with a little old-fashioned American capitalism?"

Scott flashed the trademarked Dane grin. "Oh, nothing, nothing at all." He mock-sighed. "Come on, Betty, there's obviously nothing of any interest here. Let's go back to our office." His speech sounded as phony as some of his more dubious schemes and I told him that when we were back out on the street.

"They're not going to believe that anymore than they'd believe that the earth was flat!" I told him as we wrote the trolley to our place on Isabella Street.

He still looked happy, which worried me. Scott comes up with his looniest schemes when he's in a good mood. "Betty, Betty, Betty," he said, "you'll never believe this."

When it comes to Scott Dane, I'll believe just about anything. "Try me."

"Pavlia Nellicoa is sitting in our office and she's wants to tell us all about her links to the Jeff Singer case!"

I gasped in delight. "She does? That's wonderful!" I was halfway to hugging Scott when something occurred to me. "Why does she want to reveal this information to us now? She didn't seem interested last night. As I recall, she threatened your life!"

Scott had the decency to blush. "Well, I kind of, um, promised her I'd help her get a part in a movie. She's aiming to be the next Greta Garbo and I have Hollywood connections...."

I groaned. "Scotty, how are you going to get her a part in a movie? And why did she turn to you?"

"According to Gertie and to Pavlia, Pruitt and Holstrom could get her onto Madison Avenue, but not Hollywood Boulevard. They're more interested in finances than actresses."

We arrived at the old office building that housed our room. It was cheap and not in the best of repair, but it was clean, relatively free of vermin, and located in a decent part of town. We took the elevator to the third floor, where we met Mr. Eldridge, the kindly old janitor. He's sweet but a little, well, confused. 

"Oh, hello, Miss Jones, hello, Mr. Dane. There's some kind of ruckus going on in your office. Miss Reece went out to lunch after Mr. Dane called and I was cleaning up when I saw some ketchup on the floor."

Now I was confused. "Ketchup?" 

"Well, it was something red. Or black, it's hard to tell in these black-and-white programs. Anyway, it was on the floor next to this lady with blonde hair and it was kind of sticky..."

I already suspected that I knew what was on the floor of our office. "Sticky?" Scott took off and flung open the door to the room.

"...so I figured you must have gone to the Buttery to have a bite," Mr. Eldridge triumphantly completed.

"Betty!" shouted Scott. "Come over here quickly!"

I joined him in the office. The cracked, once whitewashed plaster walls and chipped desks remained the same as always, but the dead woman on the floor was decidedly different. Scott gingerly turned her over. The pasty, gray face of Pavlia Nellicoa stared wide-eyed at us. There was a patch of red, uh, black, on her fashionable navy blue suit. "Somebody stabbed her," Scott declared. I turned my head from the horrifying site. I can play tough, but not that tough. He tried to smile. "I guess I won't have to get her a part in a movie now."

"Then it's not ketchup?" Mr. Eldridge asked in confusion.

"No," I whispered, "it's blood."

The old man just shook his head. "Oh, dear. That's not good, is it?"

========================================================================================================

I sat at my desk as Gertie shooed out the last of the reporters. Scott sat across from me. I was going through our mail and he was working on….

"What are you working on?"

"Codes," he explained.

I frowned. "What codes?"

"Betty," he showed me his notebook, "everything that Pruitt and Holstrom said about construction futures was said in code. They probably didn't want you or anyone else in the building to overhear something that could damage them later."

"Well," I exclaimed, "what does it say?"

He gave me a pained look. "I'm workin' on it, Betty Roberts, I'm workin' on it."

Gertie came in at that moment, looking a little worried. "Betty, we've been raided."

I frowned and Scott looked up from his code breaking. "What?"

A small, balding man with a mustache stormed past Gertie and into our office. He flashed us a badge. "Agent Mackie Bloom, FBI." He went to both of us and sat on my desk. "Ok, Jones, Sherwood, what are you up to this time? I just heard that you found the body of a dead German spy in your office. Do you know what they do to people who go within five miles of a spy?"

Scott and I exchanged surprised expressions. "German spy?" I asked.

"Yeah, Pavlia Nellicoa was a German spy. She was one of their best, and she has been for years. Her superiors brought her here to get the goods on our men. We believe that she may have been involved with Kurt Holstrom. He was her guardian angel of Hollywood until she found out that he earned his wings selling stocks and shares, not _Gone With the Wind_ and _The Wizard of Oz_." He grabbed a chair and sat between our desks. "What I'd like to know is how she winded up dead in your office!"

"That's what we're trying to figure out," I explained.

Gertie nodded. "I talked to her last night. She sounded a little nervous, but I thought that was because she was going to spill her beans to the law."

"Well, she ended up spilling a lot more than that." I called Mr. Eldridge, who was dusting the front lobby of our agency. "Mr. Eldridge said that he heard a ruckus going on after Gertie went to lunch." I gestured at the kindly old man. "Tell Agent Bloom what you told me, Mr. Eldridge."

"About what, Miss Jones?"

"About the red…black stain and what you heard."

"Oh, you mean the ketchup?"

I gritted my teeth. "No the...lady…you found." 

"You mean the lady who was here yesterday? She came in right after Miss Reece went to lunch. She asked me if I knew where the Jones and Dane Detective Agency was, and I said that if she was a detective like Miss Jones and Mr. Dane she should be able to find their office, and she said that she wasn't a detective, and I said…

Agent Bloom stopped him before he took up the rest of the fanfiction. "When did you hear the noise?"

"Oh, it was about ten minutes later, right before Miss Jones and Mr. Dane came back. I was at the other side of the hallway sweeping the left stairwell when I heard a popping sound, like a champagne bottle, from the Jones and Dane Detective Agency. I saw the shadow of a man running away and the lady on the floor with a patch of black ketchup on her, but nothing important."  


Agent Bloom nodded as Gertie went to get the phone. "Thank you, Mr. Eldridge. You were most, um, helpful."

"You're welcome," Mr. Eldridge said. "I hope you catch whoever put a bullet in that nice detective lady. I don't want to clean up her ketchup again!" He shuffled off and I just groaned.

"Blood, Mr. Eldridge," I reminded his retreating form. "It was blood."

Gertie returned to the main office. "Mr. Sherwood, it was for you. She said her name was Mabel and she had some important information to give you at the Green Room Bar and Lounge."

Scott closed his notebooks. "I got it!" He exclaimed. He then turned to Gertie. "Tell Mabel I'm on my way." He handed the notebooks to me. "Put these in the safe. They're big, big news, Betty! This could be the case of our careers!"

"What do you mean?" I asked. "And what does it have to do with Jeff Singer?"

Agent Bloom frowned. "You mean Jeff Singer the American spy?"

Boy, the surprises were just piling one on top of the other today. "You mean Jeff Singer is a spy, too? Does his wife know this?"

Gertie rushed in with today's paper. "Miss Jones, isn't Hilary Booth your client?"

I nodded. "Yes, why?"

She handed me the Pittsburgh Daily News. The headline screamed **BROADWAY STAR VANISHES DAYS BEFORE OPENING OF LATEST PLAY**. "Does this mean that Hilary Booth is a spy as well?"

Agent Bloom grabbed the paper from Gertie and Scott took it from him as I stuffed our notebooks in the safe with some yellowed papers, dust, and a year-old ham and cheese sandwich that looked like a top secret medical experiment. "Jeff told me that Hilary knew nothing about his other job," Mackie explained. "We think that he may have found out something that the Axis didn't want anyone else to know."

"I've begun to notice that myself," I said. I took Scott's arm as he got his coat and hat. "Scott, don't do this. It might be dangerous."

He raised his eyebrows. "The Green Room Bar and Lounge? The only thing dangerous there is the Saturday-night college crowd." He gave me a quick kiss. I tried to control my shivers when his warm lips touched my cheek and remind myself that I was spoofing film noir, not film d'amour. 

I touched his arm before he left. "Scott…" I gulped and went on, "just be careful."

"I will." He left and I went back to Agent Bloom, Gertie, and my desk.

Agent Bloom gestured at the safe. "I wonder what those codes said, anyway."

I looked at the safe. "He didn't say not to read them. They must be important somehow."

Gertie went to attend to the door as Mackie and I opened the safe and took the notebooks out from under the fur-covered sandwich. I was just about to read them when Gertie brought me my third surprise of the day. Miss Mabel entered, dressed in a floral street outfit that, while gaudy, was far less osentatious than the showy red gown she wore for her singing act. The plump blonde woman and her short companion were also with her. "Hiya, Miss Jones! Eugie, Foley, and I have some information for you and Scotty that we thought you'd like to hear about."

I suddenly didn't feel well. "You just missed him, Miss Mabel. He went to see you at the Green Room Bar and Lounge."

"I didn't call him from there! Honest!" Mabel yelped. "Eugie and Foley and I spent the last hour rehearsing for tonight's show!"

Eugie raised her hand. "I can vouch for that, and so can Foley. Right, Foley?" The little man nodded and started to speak, but I cut him off.

"If you didn't call him…" No one wanted to answer my unspoken question. 

"I swear I didn't do it," Mabel protested. "I just came down here to tell you what we heard at the Green Room Bar and Lounge."

I sighed. "That's ok, Mabel. Just tell me what you know."

Mabel sat down in the visitor's chair. Mackie took Scott's chair. "Well, Eugie and Foley and I were just finishing up our rehearsal when we heard these two guys squawking about a professor, or something. They were too old and too cheap looking to be in college. They said that they had to think of ways to shaddup the singer and the booth tonight before the shipment of gelatin for Holstrom Construction arrived at the Holstrom warehouses." She screwed her pretty face in concentration. "The professor guy was the big Calcutta. They way they talked about him, you'd think he was Boris Karloff or Orson Welles or somethin'. The big time, ya know?" 

I think she meant big Kahuna, but I got her drift. Mackie was even more interested. "The Professor is the most feared gangster in the entire Pittsburgh area," the small agent explained. "He has both hands and a foot into every illegal racket in the city. Blackmail, smuggling, the Pittsburgh Pirates, taking candy from babies, corrupting already corrupt politicians, stealing old ladies' purses, robbery, assault, assaulting robbers, loitering, parking in no parking zones, discreetly rubbing out enemies, you name it, and he's had it done. He never actually does it himself, though, which is why we haven't caught him yet."

"Singer and booth must mean Jeff and Hilary, but what would he want with two actors?" I queried.

"Wait!" Eugie explained. "Foley and I saw the two men later. Foley actually talked to them at the bar. What was it that they said, Foley?" He started to explain but Eugie cut him off in her enthusiasm to be of some service to her country. "They were all excited because their boss just paid them to take a singer, a booth, scotch, and an apple Betty crisp to Germany." 

Mabel nodded. "I met one of the men after the show. I think he said something like 'I admire and revere your exquisite melodies and I would be honored and privileged if you and your esteemed companion Miss Betty Jones would converge with me at eight o'clock in the first Holstrom Construction Warehouse on the Waterfront.' Of course, I turned him down flat. Not that he wasn't cute, mind you. I can't remember the last time I saw a tall, balding guy who made my pulse do the conga."

The long, complicated words and the description of Mabel's admirer sounded familiar, but I shook off the feelings of foreboding and leaned closer to the red (black?) haired performer. "Tell me more about this mysterious date, Mabel."

========================================================================================================

Mackie drove Mabel and I to the Holstrom Construction warehouse. Gertie, Eugie, and Mr. Foley remained behind to call the police and the FBI. The fog was as thick as Mabel's red/black hair and I kept looking around the corner expecting to hear the voice of an invisible crime-solver scaring criminals. If people wanted to hide, they would have no problems here. Pittsburgh at eight PM looked like Philip Marlowe's Los Angelas at midnight. 

"Yeah, it is kinda dark out here," Mackie admitted. "So much for glorious back and white, huh?"

"Mackie, you can hear my voice over too?" I asked. "What kind of a mystery is this?"

"A satire of one," Mackie pointed out to me. "Ahh, here we are." He turned his car on the street beside a rotting wood pier.

Mabel drew in her breath. "Well, it ain't the Ritz."

She wasn't the only one who took a breath. The joint did that to me. It was old and smelled like the Monogehela. The walls were pitted with stains and holes like one of Scott's shirts after he drinks really hot coffee and spills it on himself. One thing struck me as odd, though. "It's awful quiet."

Mabel shivered. "Yeah," she muttered, "a little too quiet."

Mackie turned as gray as the fog. "You know, why don't I just go back to the car and wait for the police to show up? After all, this isn't really my jurisdiction and I…"

Mabel and I had to drag him to the warehouse. "Mackie, this isn't a good time to go Cowardly Lion on us!"

"Yeah," Mabel added, "find some nerve!"

"Ok," Mackie snapped back, "why don't you find some mind and Betty find a heart and we'll talk then?"

"Enough!" I whispered. They closed their mouths but kept glaring at each other. I peered through a rough metal door set in the side of the decaying building. "Does anyone have a crowbar or something we can use to open this door?"

Mabel produced a hairpin. "I always come prepared, Betty." She handed me the bit of metal. I started in on the door. She shot Mackie a look. "No comments, Agent Bloom."

Mackie leaned his ear against the door. "Betty, there's someone in the office! Listen!"

The first voice was the rudimentary Brooklynese spoken by every good cheap hoodlum in these movies. "So, Holstrom, when do you want us to get the shipment outta this crummy joint?"

"Yes," another, deeper, very familiar voice added, "it is of the utmost importance that we remove these boxes tonight, before the local and national authorities discover that the blasting powder in the cases is in reality a load of guns for the Axis cause."

"Don't worry, we're sending them out tonight," Kurt Holstrom's voice told them. "We just need to wait for the apple Betty crisp, right Professor?"

"The Professor", if this was indeed him, spoke in a slick, slimy, purring voice that also sounded extremly familiar. "Yes, Mr. Holstrom. It should follow the scotch cases any moment now." He sighed. "Thank goodness Miss Nellicoa was taken care of before she revealed our entire plan. It was a shame your friends killed her. She was quite a good actress, in her way, and rather lovely. She outlived her usefulness, however, and we couldn't have her telling Miss Jones and Mr. Dane everything she knew about us."

I heard him move closer to the door. "C'm on, fellas," he said, "let's go see if we can pick up that pretty little dessert." He opened the door too quickly and Mabel, Mackie, and I fell one on top of the other into the office.

The small office was little more than a bare desk and a large chair. The back of the chair faced the desk so that whoever sat in it remained hidden. I heard a mew come from behind the chair as well. I drew the gun I hid in my purse and Mackie drew his. "Nobody move!" Mackie exclaimed. "You're all under arrest for kidnapping, smuggling, not repairing this fire hazard of a warehouse since about 1915, and doing all the stuff that I mentioned earlier."

I aimed my gun at Holstrom. "Where's Jeff Singer, his wife, and my partner, you jerk?"

He snorted. "You couldn't have thought of a stronger word than jerk?"

"This show is rated G and the talk about the blood and Pavlia's murder pushed the rating to its limits already," I insisted.

Holstrom's men grabbed Mackie and I from behind. I nearly screamed when I saw who had me. Victor Comstock put his thin finger to his lips. "Betty, please don't tell them who I am," he murmured. "I'll explain what I'm doing later, but try to go along with me for the moment." He lightly pulled my arm behind my back. I was so dazed by my ex-partner's sudden return to the living that I barely noticed when he slapped handcuffs on my wrists. Mackie and Mabel were also handcuffed. 

Holstrom himself led us to the main interior of the warehouse. It was filled from rusted ceiling to waterlogged floor with dusty crates of illegal arms, and probably legs, too. "I'm afraid you'll have to join us in Germany, folks" he told us. "You know far too much." He nudged his gun into my shoulders. "We wanted both of you and those coded notebooks. Mr. Dane's a leading cryptologist. He's probably cracked those codes and put them back together by now." The gun went a little further into my shoulder blades. "Where are those notebooks, Miss Jones?"

I shook my head. "No way. I wouldn't tell you if my life depended on it." 

"It does."

A sudden noise from one of the boxes attracted everyone's attention. Holstrom laughed evilly and threw open the top of the box. "Well, what do you know? Here's our scotch shipment," he leered.

"Scotty!" I exclaimed. Scott lay on his side on top of a stack of rifles. Handcuffs bound his wrists and ankles and a white rag muffled his angry cries. Holstrom took off the gag. 

Scott smiled. "Betty, Betty, Betty, they sure like picking on me, don't they?" His face suddenly became serious. "Don't worry, I won't tell them where the notebooks are. Even I have more principals than that."

Holstrom pointed the gun at my head. "All right, Dane. If you really have principals, you'll tell me where your notebooks are hidden before your fair Miss Jones becomes food for the citizens of the Mongohela's underworld."

"Not so fast, Holstrom!" exclaimed Victor. The men who once held Mabel and Mackie prisoner were now unlocking their handcuffs. One handed a gun to Mackie. 

"Victor," I screamed, "it **_is_** you!"

"Yes, but don't pass out on me this time," Victor reminded me. "I have to bring Holstrom to justice." He took something from the businessman/gangster/Nazi's pocket. "This should be the key to Dane's handcuffs, and to the handcuffs on Miss Booth and Mr. Singer as well."

Mackie kicked open a long, thin box. A young man with thick, curly hair lay on a row of pistols. He was also bound and gagged. Mackie took off his gag. "You're Jeff Singer, the spy we've been looking for!"

"And the husband we've been looking for," I added. Mackie unlocked Jeff's cuffs and removed his gag. 

"Thanks for getting me out of that," Jeff said. "They brought Pavlia over here to try to make me tell her what I knew about our plan. She threatened to reveal the secret about my and Hilary's marriage if I didn't tell her everything."

"Which was?" I asked as I took the handcuff keys from Mackie. I already knew Hilary and Jeff's "secret".

"We're federal counterspies," Victor explained. "Jeff, my men, and I were trying to find out what the Professor and his gang were doing. Some of my men and I went undercover as members of the gang, while Jeff worked from the outside."

"I knew something was fishy about Holstrom Construction," Jeff admitted. "I met with Pruitt and Holstrom the day before Pavlia lured me to their car. Someone hit me on the back of the head, and when I woke up, I was locked in that box."

"Thank you for telling us that, Mr. Singer," said a smooth, slithery voice. The voice held a cat in one arm and an Uzi in the other. The face was ugly, the stomach round, the suit expensive…

"Pruitt," Scott growled as I helped him out of the case, "I should have known."

Mabel pointed at Pruitt. "That's the big Kahlua?" She raised her eyebrows. "Boy, did his face wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning or what?"

"You're the Professor?" I gasped.

Pruitt rolled his eyes. "Aren't I always? Sometimes I feel like the small, chubby child who always portrays the villain when the little ones play cops and robbers." He pointed the gun at the crowd in general. The fluffy white cat gazed at us with languid blue eyes. "I've known your identity for a long time, Mr. Comstock. As I said in the office, Pavlia had her moments." He shifted the gun over to me. "I'm glad I locked that strongbox," he added. "The name of my whole organization was inside of it. And don't think I didn't know that you and Mr. Dane were snooping around in my office, Miss Jones. I have a nose for these things."

"Holstrom Construction is the company's name, I presume," I said.

"But we put everything back nice and neat," said Scott.

"Wait a minute," shouted Holstrom, "that's MY business!"

"But I'm the Professor, the head kahuna and so forth," Pruitt laughed. He had the evil laugh thing down to a science. "I'm tired of sharing this very profitable enterprise." He turned his gun to Holstrom, but a shot rang out before he could fire. Pruitt collapsed and the cat fled for the main warehouse area. 

Scott and I both turned to Victor Comstock. "No, I wasn't aiming for the couch this time. I was aiming for Pruitt. I hope I didn't hurt him, however."

Mabel ran to inspect Pruitt. The cat joined her. "Don't worry, Vic, it's only a flesh wound. There's practically no blood."

I sighed. "Thank goodness. Pruitt isn't one of my favorite people, but I don't think I could stand much more violence."

Jeff frowned. "So, if we found me and Mr. Dane, where's Hilary?"

The cat sprinted from Pruitt to a small, narrow box labeled _operating theater equipment._ Jeff followed the cat. "He must smell Hilary's kippers on rye toast," he proclaimed. 

Sure enough, Hilary Booth lay on her side in the box. The cat purred and nuzzled Hilary's handcuffs. She sneezed through her gag. Scott took it off. "Where in blazes have you been?" Hilary exclaimed. "I was kidnapped by these ruffians these…these ruffians and dumped in here." She glared at her husband. "Pumpkin, do you have anything to do with this? Or with that woman who was found in Miss Jones and Mr. Dane's agency? Or with…"

Jeff put the gag back on and closed the lid. "I might be safer if I sent her to Germany."

I stood with Victor. "Betty, I really must go."

"But why, Victor, why?"

"Because world affairs are much more important that our affair," he explained. "Betty, I'm no good at being noble, but…"

"Victor, please don't give me the hill of beans speech. It's practically a cliché." I sighed. "You do what you think is right." He walked over to talk with Mackie and Maple and the FBI and I sat on a box, stroking the cat."

"Wanna go to lunch, Betty? I know a nice little place down the street that serves nice food at even nicer prices."

Hold on, that voice sounded awfully real…

========================================================================================================

Scott shook Betty's shoulder. Her eyes flew open. "Hey, Betty, did you hear me? I asked you to lunch."

Betty smiled and shook her head. "Oh, sorry, Scott, I was just, um, thinking of a new plot for 'Sam Dane'. And," I added, "you really should leave Hilary alone. She's had enough problems as it is with Jeff and Pavla and everything."

"That's why I do it, Betty," Scott said with a grin. "Hildy needs a laugh right now." Betty's stomach growled. "And you could use some lunch, and so could I. I'm starving."

Betty sighed. He'd keep bugging her if she didn't go with him anyway, so why not accept? One date couldn't hurt. "All right, Scott. What's the place called?"

"I think you'll like it. It's the Green Room Bar and Lounge. One of my old buddies is the bartender and he's willing to give us free drinks. And the singing act is something else."

Betty opened her mouth but decided that it would be wise to say nothing at all. "Sounds terrific, Scott."

****

The End


End file.
